Dreaming in wet paint, or something like it

I keep dreaming about a city where the rooftops are all freshly painted illustrations — nothing dried, oil paint shifting under my feet as I cross from roof to roof. Each one is a page from a manuscript I've been working on, but the characters keep re-painting themselves mid-stride, turning their heads to look up at me like they're waiting for me to fix them before the color sets. I wake up with green pigment under my fingernails and no memory of touching a brush.